The Eden Inheritance (5 page)

It wasn't that his visits were all that infrequent – irregular, yes, his work as a professional pilot precluded any sort of regularity, but he managed to come about ten times a year, sometimes staying over in the bedroom under the eaves that had been his since early childhood. He often telephoned without any prior arrangement to say he would be in the area, or that he had a couple of days between jobs and would come over if she didn't have other plans. Kathryn was happy with that – she liked to think that Guy still looked on Rose Cottage as his home, and enjoyed the hectic scurrying around to get things ready for him which made a total change from the predictability of her everyday life – planning his favourite meals, making sure there was a bottle of his favourite single malt whisky in the chiffonier and clean sheets on his bed. Even if it meant closing early at the small antique shop she ran in the village she never attempted to put him off. The shop would still be there tomorrow, Guy might not be. Quite apart from the fact that his job could take him anywhere in the world, there was always the shadow of Savigny hanging over her. The Baron, Guy's grandfather, was in his mid-eighties now, and though he was a remarkable man for his age, not even he could last forever. One day in the not-too-distant future he would die, and when he did Guy would become the next Baron, with all that entailed. He would give up his career and go to France, she was certain of it – Guy had the same sense of duty to his heritage that his father had had, and she had done nothing to discourage it. Quite the opposite. She had been careful always to ensure that Guy had as much contact as possible with his paternal grandparents and grew up knowing exactly what would be expected of him when the time came.

Handing so much of her son over to them had not been easy – he had been, after all, all she had left and there had been times when she had wished with all her heart that she could metaphorically pull up the drawbridge and keep him in England, all to herself. But she had known that she must not do that. The de Savignys had suffered enough, it would be wicked to deprive them of their grandson too. And besides, she owed it to Charles to see that the title and heritage that should have been his passed smoothly to his son.

Dear God, he was so like him! Kathryn thought now, looking at Guy – physically like him, at any rate. With only the soft light of the table lamp and the flickering firelight to illuminate the room, it might almost have been Charles sitting there in the chair opposite her. The dark hair, the olive skin, the aquiline nose that was so unmistakably de Savigny, even the build, taut and wiry beneath the baggy jumper and twill trousers, were so like Charles as to almost constitute a reincarnation.

Guy was not so like Charles in character, though. He was stronger, less intense, much more his own man. Though she was not so vain as to take credit for it, there was a great deal of Kathryn in Guy. His inner confidence and ease with himself came from her, as did his stubbornness and refusal to accept defeat. And she had taught him, she hoped, not to be afraid to give and receive love – though so far she had to admit there had been little sign of him finding the lasting happiness with a woman that was her dearest wish for him.

Perhaps that was why he had come today, she thought, hope sparking briefly. Perhaps he was going to tell her he had finally decided to ask Wendy to marry him, but in all honesty she didn't think so. There was a slight edge of wary defensiveness about him that was more in keeping with a confession than the bearing of good news, and surely if there had been someone important in his life she would have had some inkling of it before now.

There was something, though, she was certain of it – had been from the moment he telephoned to tell her he was coming. One aspect of Guy that was very like his father was his transparency – to her, at any rate. She knew, had always known, when he was keeping something from her, and he was doing it now.

She rose from her chair, a still-slim woman in a nut-brown polo skinny-rib jumper and full-length tweed skirt that nipped her waist and fell smoothly over her hips to make her appear taller than her five feet four inches. She liked to wear long skirts in the evenings and was glad they were all the fashion; there was something very cosy about the feel of the wool swirling gracefully about her legs, and the cottage, for all her efforts, could be draughty in the depths of winter. She crossed to the basket of logs, lifted one out and tossed it on to the fire, pressing it down with the poker until a shower of sparks flew. Firelight flickered on her face, almost unlined in spite of her fifty-three years, and lit the golden lights in her close-cropped hair. Then she straightened, rested one wool-clad elbow against the mantelpiece, and looked directly at her son.

‘Don't you think, Guy, that it's time you told me whatever it is you came to say?'

She saw the slight narrowing of his eyes – so slight as to have been virtually unnoticeable to anyone who knew him less well – and knew without question that she had been right.

‘You're not in some kind of trouble, are you?' she asked.

‘Oh no, nothing like that. I just wanted to talk to you and I don't know quite where to begin.'

‘Whyever not? I'm not some kind of ogre, am I? And I'm not easily shocked, either. I've been around too long and seen too much of life for that.'

He smiled briefly. His mother's life here in a sleepy village in Hampshire, with her antique shop and her garden her main interests, scarcely constituted life in the fast lane and it was difficult for him to imagine that it had ever been much different. She had, he thought, been protected from harsh reality for most of her life, born the child of doting, reasonably well-off parents, married briefly into a wealthy respected family with a history that stretched back for hundreds of years, cushioned by the soft cocoon of country life. She had brought him up virtually unaided, it was true, and that, he supposed, could not always have been easy, but still it was hardly the sort of existence to describe as ‘ seeing life'. Whatever Kathryn had experienced, it seemed to have left scarcely a mark on her, and apart from her occasional explosions of fiery anger, soon over, he could not remember ever seeing her composure dented.

Except when it came to this one subject.

‘Because it's something you never want to talk about,' he said.

She stiffened. He saw it in the sudden straightness of her back, the way her hand with its perfectly manicured but unvarnished nails gripped the edge of the mantelpiece.

‘I want to talk about the war,' he said, hating the fact that he was distressing her but having to go on anyway.

‘Why?' There was a slight tremor, but also the stubbornness he knew so well in her voice. ‘The war was over and done with a very long time ago, Guy. Why should you want to talk about it now?'

‘Because it's not over and done with as far as I'm concerned. Something has happened, something I want to follow up, but knowing how you feel about all that I didn't want to do it without telling you. And besides, I need your help.'

‘What are you talking about, Guy?'

He hesitated. There was no easy way to do this.

‘I think it's possible I might have found Otto von Rheinhardt.'

He heard the quick intake of her breath and went on swiftly: ‘Look – I know this upsets you, but as I said, I think it's just possible that I might know where he is. He's never been caught, has he? He's never had to answer for his crimes. If he's still alive, then I think it's time he was made to, don't you?'

Her hand was at her throat now, playing nervously with the slender gold chain that hung over the brown wool polo-neck. He did not think he could ever remember having seen her so agitated.

‘I've heard about a German living in exile,' he went on. ‘A German with a houseful of treasures that sound suspiciously like the ones that went missing from the château. Grandpapa used to tell me about them, all the things that were looted. In particular, there was a triptych …'

‘The world is full of triptychs. Why on earth should you suppose it's the same one?'

‘I don't know. It might not be, of course.' He didn't feel like going into details. ‘You're right, it's a very long shot. But all the same, a German of about the right age, living in luxury on a remote Caribbean island with a houseful of what appears to be very French treasure … I want to check it out. This man may not be von Rheinhardt. The triptych and the treasures might not be the ones stolen from Savigny. But I wouldn't mind betting they were stolen from someone. If I don't get our stuff back, then perhaps someone, at least, will get theirs.'

There was a prolonged silence. In it the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the antique clock on the mantelpiece sounded very loud. Guy looked away uncomfortably, looked back again. Kathryn was, he thought, very pale.

‘The thing is,' he said, ‘I need some pointers. You knew von Rheinhardt. To start with I need to know what he looked like.'

‘My dear Guy, it's thirty years since I last saw him. He'll have changed now, even if he didn't have plastic surgery, which I understand many of them did. Haven't you any idea how thirty years can change someone?'

‘Thirty years haven't changed you. I've seen photographs of you when you got married and when I was a baby, and I don't think you've altered at all.'

Kathryn laughed shortly.

‘That's rubbish! Of course I have.'

‘Well, you're older, yes. But there's no mistaking you really.'

‘You say that because you see me regularly – have done through all those years. The changes take place gradually, little by little, and you simply assimilate them. Your French grandparents and Tante Celestine would think I had changed, I am sure. As would anyone who has not seen me from that day to this. It would be the same with von Rheinhardt. I expect I could pass him in the street and not know him.'

But the tiny tremor was back in her voice, telling Guy that was not the truth. The arrogance of the man would not have changed, those cold eyes in the handsome Aryan face … she was seeing them now. Thirty years or three hundred, she would never forget.

‘Don't you think he deserves to be brought to justice?' Guy said harshly. ‘Why should someone who commits the sort of crimes he committed get away with it? And live with the proceeds of his wickedness? Surely if he was so evil you want to see him punished?'

‘I'm sure he will be punished,' Kathryn said quietly. ‘If not in this life, then the next. I think I am content to leave it at that.'

Guy prickled with frustation.

‘How can you say that?'

‘Von Rheinhardt had a way of contaminating everything and everyone around him, spreading evil. He'd do it again.'

‘He wouldn't have much chance of getting away with it in a prison cell.'

‘Don't be so sure. There are people who manage to spread mayhem whatever the circumstances. Von Rheinhardt is one of those. I don't just mean tangible disasters, Guy. He somehow manages to bring out the worst in people. No, I honestly believe the past is best left alone now. I have managed to put it behind me. Why can't you do the same?'

‘Because unlike you, it seems, I want the man who is responsible for my father's death brought to justice, if that is at all possible, and I want the family treasures back where they belong. I don't want to hurt you, Mum. I don't want to drag up memories that are painful to you. But I owe it to my father, don't you see? I owe it to my heritage.'

‘The Savigny inheritance.' She said it wearily, looking, he thought, suddenly older than her fifty-three years, though such a short time ago she had looked much younger. ‘ Oh Guy, what a lot
that
has to answer for!'

‘What do you mean by that?'

She was silent for a moment, then she shrugged.

‘Family pride and duty. You sound just like your father. I'm sure your grandpapa has instilled it in you just as it was instilled in him. I know it's up to you to carry on the Savigny line. I've done my best to make it easy for you, though God knows, it isn't what I'd have chosen for you. We've lived in England but I have tried to ensure you were as much at home in France as you were here, that you understood their ways, that you would be worthy of the title and your family name. I've accepted that one day I will lose you to them …'

‘That's rubbish!' he interrupted. ‘You don't have to lose me at all!'

‘I've accepted that your place will be there, just as it would have been if your father had lived,' she went on as if she had not heard him speak. ‘But this one thing I ask you, Guy. Don't go after vengeance for the sake of vengeance. It won't do anyone any good and it may do a great deal of harm.'

‘Then you won't help me?'

She looked at him long and steadily. He thought he saw a flash of that old familiar fire in her eyes, then her mouth set in a determined line.

‘That's right. I won't help you. I'd go further. I have very rarely asked anything of you. I want you to have your own life and I've avoided making any demands of you. But I am asking you now. If you have any respect for my feelings, forget this whole thing. Please. Leave the past where it belongs.'

He looked at her, feeling her pain, wanting to alleviate it and knowing he could not. This was something he had to do, for his father, for his family.

‘I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry if it upsets you. But I have to find out if this man is von Rheinhardt.'

‘I see.' Her breath came out on a sigh. ‘Well, I wish you wouldn't do it, Guy, but I think I understand.' She paused, regaining control of herself. ‘ Would you like a drink? I've got a bottle of Glenfiddich in the chiffonier.'

‘Yes, please.'

‘To be honest,' Kathryn said, ‘ I think we could both do with one.'

After he had gone she sat staring into the fire until the last embers glowed and died.